Reporter: Hello everyone! So glad you could join us today. After our last episode — well, let’s be honest. That didn’t turn out as well as I hoped. I really thought a bit of psychotherapy was all we needed, but then we wound up–

Editor: Hey! Would you stop jabbering over there for one freakin’ minute and get her off me?!

If you’re anything like me, you’re probably pretty busy right now. Maybe you still have baking you want to do, shopping you need to take care of, oh-dear-God-you-forgot-a-gift-for-Uncle-Henry, or maybe you have guests coming over for dinner.

(Did you clean your baseboards? They’ll look you know. Better get on that.)

This time of year always makes me a little nostalgic, so I’ve been thinking about past Christmases — actually Christmas Eves, because that was always the bigger holiday for my family. That was when the entire family would gather together. There’d be a big meal, the gifts would be opened, then we’d go to the candlelight service at church.

This last week, I lost my sunglasses. To fully understand the tragedy of this event, you must know that this was my favorite pair of sunglasses. They were stylish, lightweight, fit me perfectly, and were dark enough that if someone was talking to me, I could ignore them completely and they never knew. Oh, and they protected my eyes too.

Now they’re gone and I have to wear my back-up pair. Actually I have two back-up pairs. (I live in Phoenix, after all.) But neither pair is as nice as the pair I lost.

Well, maybe lost isn’t the correct word. I know exactly where they are.

They are wrapped in three plastic grocery bags, knotted twice, and sitting at the bottom of our garbage bin. Our outside garbage bin.

Since we both had a long weekend coming up, Husband suggested we escape somewhere quiet, where we could both relax, recoup, and so I could write.

That’s actually what he said: “and you can write.”

What can I say? Some girls are just lucky.

The tricky part was finding a place that wasn’t too expensive, was far enough away that we felt like we were getting away, but not so far away that I’d get carsick. After much discussion back and forth and exploring all possible options, we finally decided on a retreat center located in Carefree, Arizona, about an hour and a half from our home. Yeah, yeah … big whoop. But there are retreat centers, and then there are retreat centers.

This one was run by Lutherans, which neither of us are but as I was raised Lutheran, we figured that gave us an in. Best part? They were running a special of $50 a night.

I know what you’re thinking. What kind of place can one get for $50 a night? It crossed my mind too, but I survived Hotel Horror with relatively few scars and really all we were wanting was someplace quiet. We figured as long as the bed was one step above a cot and we had a private bathroom, we’d be doing pretty good.

In last week’s post, we covered what you should do to make yourself memorable on a day-to-day basis. But let’s say you want to be remembered on a more grand scale. You want your name in the history books; you want school-age children writing essays about you; you want an entry on Wikipedia.

Last week’s post got me to thinking about some of the weird things we come up with as children and what we fervently believe to be true. I’m sure we drove adults crazy with all our questions, but somehow we still managed to think up some pretty wild stuff on our own. Of course, sometimes the reason we came up with the wild stuff is because we were trying to make sense of what adults told us in the first place.

Here are some of the things I remember believing with all my heart and soul.

My second year of college I took an evening class in writing. From what I remember there were only about a dozen of us in the class, including the teacher. It was called “Writing for Publication,” or something hopeful like that. We were young. We didn’t know any better.

The class was taught by a middle-aged woman who had some success in getting published. Her big claim to fame was getting an article published in one of the airline magazines. We were in awe.

Also, she wore the same green shoes to every class. I’m not sure why I bring that up. It’s just something I remember.

Anyway, every week we had to present something we wrote, read it in front of the entire class, and then listen to everyone’s comments. Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Writers live by a code. If I say nice things about the crap you write, then you have to say nice things about the crap I write.

Need to find something?

Hey there! I'm C.J., a tortured writer living in a small seaside cottage with my Malamute and 52 cats. Not really, but that's my dream.
If one of your dreams is finding a safe haven to unwind and have a chuckle or two, I hope Feeding on Folly becomes that place for you.